


we play in the night time

by green_postit



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_postit/pseuds/green_postit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a model. Merlin is his long-suffering assistant with benefits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we play in the night time

Arthur gets in at three in the morning. 

Merlin picks him up from the airport, sees him outside, sunglasses and custom-made Armani jacket. He's standing beside his luggage, hair rumpled, smoking. Even from the front seat, far away, Merlin can see the tension in his shoulders, the pull in his forehead. 

Irritated. Tired.

"Your chariot, my liege." Merlin tries to be funny.

Arthur doesn't look at him, keeps him waiting while he finishes his smoke, throws the smoldering filter to the pavement. He circles the car, heaves his luggage into the backseat. Merlin turns down the radio when Arthur slumps into the front seat, breathes out a contented sigh.

"Take me home," he grumbles. Merlin nods absently, maneuvers them from the airport, drives toward the penthouse suite Uther rented out for Arthur's return.

It's a quiet drive, Arthur's soft snores, Belle and Sebastian's _String Bean Jean_ on the radio. Merlin taps his thumbs to the beat of the song, glances at Arthur every red light, every few blocks.

It's been a week since he's been in Arthur's company, impromptu photo shoot in Thailand to promote Uther's new line of menswear. Merlin's seen the proofs in Gaius' office. Thai models in simple black charmeuse slips, one contorted over Arthur's leg, the other wrapped up in his arms. It's a dance, erotic and inspiring. Arthur stood out in the red fabrics, the open neck shirt. Fury and passion single-mindedly focused on the beautiful woman in his arms. 

He hadn't expected the separation to affect him as greatly as it did. He'd had a week's paid vacation from Arthur's constant demands, and instead of spending his days at a pub or company spa, he stayed in his cramped apartment, hunched over his dinner table, sketching page after page of shirts and jackets and pants with Arthur's face in mind.

Merlin sighs, turns the radio off completely as the hotel rolls into view. He turns into the underground parking, flashes his ID badge and room key to the night watchman, and parks near the elevator. He tugs Arthur's luggage out with a grunt, rolls it in front of the elevator doors. 

Arthur's asleep against the window, cheek pressed flat, sunglasses skewed on his perfectly straight nose. Merlin opens the driver's side door, reaches across the gears shifts and the steering wheel and squeezes Arthur's knee, shakes him softly. 

"Wake up, Arthur. We're here."

Arthur groans, always a semi-light sleeper, probably saturated in caffeine, body waiting for an excuse to work off the excess energy. He pushes his fingers under the Prada sunglasses, rubs at his eyes. 

"How long've I been asleep?"

"A while."

Arthur groans, slides out of the car without another sound. He immediately hits the up button with his elbow, leans against the wall, arms crossed. Merlin can tell he's dozing again. 

"C'mon. Let's put you to bed."

\---

The suite is huge, lavish and decadent. Uther's wealth visible in the silks and velvets and goose-feather pillows. 

Arthur strips off his clothing once he's through the door. That Armani jacket, Gucci pants. Hermes scarf, Dolce belt. Some designers, Merlin's never heard of; exorbitant amounts of money litters the plush carpet. 

Merlin scoops up every article in his arms, winces at the wrinkles. Arthur's already in the bedroom, CK boxers low on his slender hips, stepping on his toes, wriggling out of his socks as he collapses face first on the bed. 

Merlin sighs. He tosses the clothes over a leather chair, kicks off his scuffed Chucks and makes his way to the bedroom. He bypasses Arthur, head tucked into the bends of his arms, contented little smile on his face, and jerks the heavy comforter from beneath the pillows. He manages to loosen the satin sheets and prepares one side of the bed, walks around, steps over Arthur's legs, and works on the other.

"C'mon now," he chides when finished. "Your father'll bloody kill me—no, worse, _sack_ me—if you catch cold."

"You're _my_ PA," Arthur mumbles into his forearm. He turns his head, looks at Merlin with surprisingly lucid eyes. "Displease _me_ and start worrying about being sacked."

The flush starts low in Merlin's belly, swirls, arousal hums under his skin. "Then I pray my service's been to your satisfaction, _my liege_." He mock curtsies, keeps eye contact, sees the flash of hunger in Arthur's clear blue eyes.

"Come here, Merlin." Arthur pushes himself off the bed, effortless, graceful. He moves toward Merlin, despite his request. Merlin could sooner cease breathing than look away. Tanned chest, strong cut of muscles, perfect definition. Arthur was born to model, born to look gorgeous and untouchable for a living.

He presses in close, fingers curling around Merlin's shoulders, slide to his elbows, drift to his hips, latch on firmly, hold Merlin in place as he leans in, wet lips against his neck, mouths at Merlin's pulse, moans when Merlin's gasp rips from his throat. Arthur crushes their hips together, threads fingers through Merlin's hair and tugs, wills them closer. 

Merlin's reserves crumble without any effort, a sandcastle in a tsunami. He's clumsy in his kiss, gets the corner of Arthur's mouth on the first try, whines until the contact is firm and soft and complete, until he has Arthur's tongue in his mouth and he's swallowing his moans.

This hasn't happened often; once when Arthur was too on edge, needed relief in any way he could get it. There were no famous or posh celebrities there, no fellow models. Just Merlin and his shaking hands and Arthur panting into the curve of his neck, teeth marks purple and red welts he hid with scarves later on. Once, when the brandy flowed and flowed and flowed and Merlin ended up with Arthur in his lap, rutting against his stomach as he bit his lips bloody. Just once, when Merlin asked him to wear his designs, and instead of laughter and rejection, he had Arthur's promise and a contract in the form of a kiss that he can still feel burn against his lips. 

Never like this, though. Never so much open need, such deliberate touches. Merlin's hands are greedy; wants to take in every inch of Arthur's skin before he wakes up tomorrow and never has this again. 

Arthur's hands are impatient; fingers tug at Merlin's hoodie, hook under the elastic of the waist and tug upward. Merlin nearly chokes when the collar catches around his chin, has to take his hands off Arthur's back long enough to detangle the makeshift noose. 

Without the barrier of his hoodie, Merlin suddenly feels inadequate, skinny and pale beanpole Irish boy in front of a global icon of beauty. 

Arthur's eyes darken, sucks in a breath through the seal of his lips. Merlin reflexively tries to cover himself, is met with Arthur's hands around his wrists, squeezes like a vice. His gaze sweeps across Merlin's chest, scrutinizing, analytical. He's looking for something and Merlin trembles under the intensity.

"Whaa—?"

"Did he touch you?"

Merlin's back straightens, Arthur's fingers clench. He's angry, a fight brewing under the flushed surface. Merlin thought they'd moved past this, sworn oaths and Arthur's distrust. He looks away, tries to detangle his wrists from Arthur's hold. Arthur squeezes tighter, pulls Merlin closer.

"Did he touch you?" He repeats his question, impatient, furious. Merlin's never heard him this angry before. A bomb with seconds left, _tick tock tick tock_.

"I'd never," he chokes out, blush high on his cheekbones. "I—I haven't—won't."

The fight pours out of Arthur. His grip relaxes, small smile curls on his lips. He presses in close, mouth poised over Merlin's Adam's apple, mouths at his skin in ways that make Merlin's knees shake. 

"S'all I could think about," Arthur breathes into Merlin's throat, teeth coming into play. "While I was away, _he_ got bolder and put his filthy hands all over you—over _my_ property."

Arthur tugs him backward, toward the bed. Their legs are tangled and they shuffle more than they walk, but Merlin has Arthur's body pressed flush against his, can feel the smooth plains of his muscles and the fullness of his rigid cock. Merlin flushes and feels dizzy all at once, overwhelmed and so deeply honored.

"Drove me mad, Merlin. You drove me mad."

"Whaa about you?" Merlin's eyes squeeze shut the second Arthur's clever fingers began working away his belt and jeans. "Prancing around with those gorgeous girls all day long, all of 'em fawning over you."

"They couldn't hold a candle to you." Arthur's words hit him low in the gut, wind him. 

"Arthur—" 

"Stay," Arthur's breathless, exhausted. "Stay the night."

Merlin doesn't trust his voice, just nods and nods until Arthur grips his head, seals their lips together again. They hit the edge of the bed, Arthur bends easily, draws Merlin down with him. Merlin doesn't feel the awkward landing, just the complete expanse of Arthur's chest beneath him, pleading with him to touch.

He does; fingers sweep across the bridge of Arthur's clavicle, palms flat and sweeping down the outline of his ribs. When Merlin presses an awkward kiss against the curve of his neck, Arthur's nails claw down his spine like a wild animal.

Arthur's kisses become more teeth, more bites. The pressure on Merlin's jaw aches from where Arthur presses, closer and closer until it's a sloppy exchange of saliva, until Merlin's mouth tastes like Arthur, until Arthur's satisfied with his handiwork and moves to his neck, marks up Merlin's skin with sharp nips and bruising sucks. 

Merlin whimpers, Arthur's moans sound painful against his throat, ripped and raw and desperate. Arthur's so turned on and consumed and Merlin is so viciously proud that _he's_ the cause.

"Merlin." Arthur's voice is destroyed, a hiss. "Let me."

"Anything," Merlin swears, shimmies his hips up, ruts their cocks against each other. "Anything."

Permission. Arthur immediately clutches Merlin's hips, flips them, slams him down on the mattress. The flimsy material of his boxers are ripped from his hips, tugged unceremonially down the long bend of his legs, yanked from his ankles with a force and strength that make Merlin shiver.

He spreads his legs, lets Arthur fall between them. He can feel his heart beat in his throat, his nerves chipping away at his sanity. Arthur kisses his stomach, tender, chase, licks at the soft hairs low on his belly. 

His long fingers curl around Merlin's dick, strokes once, experimental, smiles when Merlin gasps, hips jerk forward into the motion. He looks as if he wants to say something, but instead, Arthur wets his lips, swallows.

Brings his mouth over Merlin's cock and clamps down. 

Merlin curses, jumps at the contact. Arthur holds him down, works his mouth lower and lower until Merlin's sobbing. Arthur's eyes close, his cheeks hollow, tongue lapping around Merlin in quick strokes, heavy licks, precise, exact. A man on a mission.

The suction and heat are unbearably good. Merlin babbles, claws at Arthur's shoulders. He needs it to stop, knows it shouldn't feel this consuming, this hard. Arthur slips off, swallows again, loud in the room, licks at a fat droplet that pearls on the tip of Merlin's dick. 

He looks peaceful, blessed, enraptured. 

When he leans down again, hands and mouth working together, Merlin bites his lips, feels himself loose consistency around the edges, feels the press of Gaelic against his throat, old mother tongue slips whenever he can't contain himself. He bites down on his tongue, thrashes his head and grips Arthur's hair. The strain in his stomach is familiar, the burn in his tense thighs. The build, the ache. Arthur's warm mouth, slick and tight. 

He has Arthur Pendragon on his knees. The realization shakes through him like a maraca, pushes him that last inch over the finish line.

"A Dhia dhílis!"

Arthur moans, loud and appreciative around him. Swallows. Merlin shudders apart, spills out from the seams, cries long and loud to the ceiling, back arched, face smashed against sheets that cost more than his entire apartment.

One last torturous suck and Arthur pulls off, wet pop, the chill of room temperature air. Merlin whimpers, Arthur sniggers, crawls up his flushed chest, cups his hands around his face like parentheses. He licks away the tears squeezed from his eyes, groans low in his throat.

Their cheeks are pressed together, Arthur's words whispered, private, intense. "I'm going to devour you."

Merlin shakes for a completely different reason.

\--

Merlin wakes to the smell of eggs.

The first touch of light against his eyes makes him wince, the burn in his ass makes him hiss.

He goes stone still for a minute, panic attempting to claw out his trachea. The hazy memory of Arthur holding him down, two slick fingers inside of him, of the sounds Arthur made when he came…

Merlin's skin burns red, hysterical laughter echoes in his skull. No. Not Arthur. Couldn't be _his_ Arthur.

"Good, you're finally awake. I was beginning to think you'd slipped into a coma."

Merlin looks up, see Arthur in _his_ oversized sweater, two plates balanced on his palms. Arthur's hair is rumbled and sticking up, bedhead for the ultra chic.

Hunger flares in Merlin's stomach. He's not looking at the eggs, can only think of the ways to peel Arthur out of his sweater and get him back into bed.


End file.
